


When Pain is like Coming Home

by DustyTales



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29665689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyTales/pseuds/DustyTales
Summary: The nights the rain falls hard on the concrete in Gotham, and thunder rolls in the distance, phantom hands haunt Dick's skin, and he does what he must to keep his demons at bay.
Relationships: Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	When Pain is like Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings:  
> \- References to the events of Nightwing #93 and therefore Dick's sexual abuse at the hands of Tarantula  
> \- Graphic depictions of PTSD episodes  
> \- Mild depictions of self harm
> 
> Author has personal experience with the subject matter and is confident in it's realistic depiction, but for this reason reader discression is highly advised.

People talk about repressing things like it's a joke, or like it's easy. Sure, if you're talking about pushing that embarrassing thing you did in middle school out of your mind when you're trying to sleep, that's easy. Pushing down your crush on your neighbor? A little harder, but still pretty easy.

It's easy because calling that repression is insulting to the very concept. 

_ Repressing _ something is when something so horribly, disgustingly fucked up happens to you, your own brain doesn't even know how to process it. So to protect you, your brain digs a hole and crams all those memories inside and prays it'll just go away. You'll forget things. The pain will never fully go away, but when you forget, you can't think about it, so you go on like nothing happened.

But those memories don't go away, and, alone in the dark, they fester. They grow and undulate and push against the ceiling until all it takes is one small nudge to pop the lid. Something totally insignificant will happen, and then you're staring this rotten, pulsating thing in the face, so much worse and so much bigger than it was the first time you decided you couldn't handle it.

At least, that's how Dick felt about it.

There were large swaths of the last few months that he straight up could not remember. His research told him this was normal, that PTSD can cause memory loss and he didn't need to worry about it. 

But it was hard not to worry given how much the things he did remember rocked his world when someone pulled the wrong strings.

Dick didn't have that many triggers, all things considered. For a little while, he had trouble with being touched, but it got easier. Wally, Donna, Roy, they could touch him, they were safe. Other, older heroes putting a hand on his shoulder? It made him flinch, but he could handle it. He was fine.

Sure, sometimes a sensation would trigger a memory; pouring rain, the smell of blood and death, cold concrete against the skin of his back; and then he'd be right back on that rooftop with that horrible woman's hands on him, his brain screaming at him to  _ oh God make it stop. _

He did what he had to to quiet the screaming. He was fine. He was a Bat, so he found a way to be fine.

And most nights when he came home he  _ was  _ fine. He'd have a shower, spend some time on his phone, then go to bed like any other person would.

But some nights, when the rain poured down on the rooftops and made that  _ noise  _ that made his skin crawl, when his suit clung to his skin like a wetsuit and reminded him too much of it being peeled back as he thrashed and begged it to stop; Some nights his brain screamed too loud, and he did what he had to do to quiet it.

Dick wasn't particularly proud of it.

Even in the moment, he would admit it was not a good coping mechanism.

But it was what he had, and for now, it worked.

As he started down at his razor, part of him blamed Bruce, as unfair as he knew it was. Bruce had taught him to grit his teeth and soldier through the pain, whatever it may be. Because of Bruce, pain was familiar, but it wasn't Bruce's fault it became Dick's refuge. 

It was Gotham's fault, truly. Bruce had made Dick into what he  _ had  _ to be to survive that hellish city, and Dick couldn't blame him for that. Dick had wanted to be Robin, after all. And without Bruce, he likely wouldn't have lived to become Nightwing.

So no, as Dick took the razor to his wrists, he did not blame Batman.

He blamed himself, for allowing the pain to become so familiar that it felt like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> So here's an update on me for those wondering where my series all went: I lost my insurance and cant afford the vast majority of my medicine. Writing is hard when my head feels foggy and some days my hands straight up wont cooperate.  
> Stuff is gonna be sparatic for a bit.  
> Also if me saying this after posting this fic concerns you, I am safe. Writing this was therapeutic.


End file.
